I say the house is like a dog that I can’t leave alone
for too long. For one thing, the flowers and the pool
are competing for water and need me to adjudicate.
The orchid in the forest of the living room would miss
my daily compliments—“So smart and such a beauty!”
The portraits of my wife’s ancestors would tilt away
from each other; hair would grow Rapunzel-like from
their ears without hearing me talking to myself, their
eyes rheum over without me to watch; without coffee
brewing and kugel baking, their noses would wither
like week-old mushrooms. The spirit of our last dog,
Koda, should he reappear without warning as ghosts do,
shedding black hair in the carpet that I still vacuum up,
would go to his ball behind the couch and lay waiting.